


Dream Salesman

by bauble



Series: World's End [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23103148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble
Summary: Sequel to 'World's End' wherein Arthur is a zombie, and Eames refuses to accept it.Part of the 10th anniversary Inception Big Bang Challenge. Many thanks to Swimmingrat for the incredible art! You can see more here: https://swimmingrat.tumblr.com/
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Series: World's End [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660552
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44
Collections: Inception Big Bang 2020





	1. He can help you escape

He's a dream salesman.

He can offer you whatever you'd like: a long-lost lover, a warm home, the birth of a child who'd succumbed to the plague. He can bring you to a world that's beautiful and alive. He can help you escape, if only for a few hours, and for a price. But those who take him up on his offer swear it's worth it. Worth everything, maybe.

He travels from settlement to settlement, wandering through wastelands between meager specks of civilization. Scuttlebutt says he wasn't always a peddler, that he's got military training that's kept him alive. 

That, and the muzzled zombie he brings everywhere. Hands bound in chains and leashed like a dog, if that dog was handsome in an eerie way and liable to tear the flesh off anything nearby. 

Word is, the salesman even named his pet zombie. There are other words whispered about what he likes to do with it, but those aren't ones to be spoken in polite company.

They might stay on the outskirts of a city for a day, a week, a month. One day he'll be in the village square wearing that scarred, roguish smile, and the next morning he'll be gone--along with all the valuables worth having in town. Women come home to their life savings pilfered, men curse the day he came.

And then there are the dreamers who watch the road with vacant eyes. What do they care about money? All they do is await his return.


	2. You know I don’t make guarantees

"Change the formula," Eames says. "He's getting restless."

Yusuf stoppers a flask and sets it on the narrow shelf to the left of his workspace. He misses his old building in Mombasa: the orderly storefront upstairs, the private space downstairs. Even after worldwide economic collapse, real estate in Las Vegas isn’t cheap to come by and now he has to make do with a lab doubling as a place of business. It’s a cramped room; with more than two bodies inside, it verges on suffocating. "This is the second formula adjustment in two months."

"So?" Eames stands by the window, lit by the glow of neon signs outside. His beard is trimmed and neat, the shoulders of his long duster jacket filled out with muscle rather than bone. The past few months have been successful ones for him, it seems.

"So that means the body is adapting more quickly to the tranquilizer. I can up the dosage, but--"

"Good," Eames interrupts. "That's all we need."

Yusuf pulls several flasks from his shelf and a clean beaker. "While adjustments are feasible in the short term, I should warn you that the day may come when no compound will effectively keep it—him--docile."

"He'll be cured long before that day comes." 

Can one truly be cured after they’ve eaten--Yusuf barely wants to think it. Perhaps Eames doesn't care. "There is no cure."

“Yet," Eames says, jaw tightening. "There’s a settlement in California. I've heard reports of people being bitten and not changing."

Another settlement with so-called immunity; they've had similar conversations before. "Assuming the rumors are true, it's still been years."

"It's a disease, and diseases can be treated." Eames holds out his hand.

In the back corner of the room, the zombie twists against its restraints. The steel chair screeches against the linoleum floor.

Yusuf passes a syringe and accepts a thick roll of money—faintly stained—in return. Eames kneels beside the chair, strokes the zombie's arm gently before administering the injection. The drug takes effect almost immediately, the creature's chin drooping as its entire body goes lax.

Eames touches its hair and murmurs something low and inaudible. It sounds tender, reassuring. As if it could hear or understand.

Yusuf clears his throat; Eames pays well, but the less time he has a monster on his premises, the better. “Will that be all?”

“I need more Somnacin,” Eames says, standing. When Yusuf names the price, he frowns. “That’s double what I paid last month.”

“There’ve been production problems,” Yusuf says. “And new buyers on the market.”

“There are less than fifty working PASIV machines left in the world.” Eames crosses his arms. “Who could be buying enough to create a shortage? The US military? A crime syndicate?”

Yusuf shakes his head. “A few wealthy individuals. One’s a hedge fund billionaire convinced that an extractor can use dreamshare to reconstruct the mind of a zom—of someone who has fully turned. She’s posted a considerable reward.”

“Has she convinced any actual extractors to try or just hacks?” 

“Zhu and Iwasaka have made attempts through proxies. There are rumors that a few extractors have been desperate enough to hook themselves up directly to try.” A romantic might describe the inevitable results as tragic. To Yusuf, they’re merely predictable.

Eames glances at the dented PASIV tucked discretely at the bottom of Yusuf’s shelf. “Not much of an extraction, is it. More like an inception.”

“The only thing that takes hold is an infection followed by hallucinations, assuming the extractor wakes up.” Reckless. Stupid. Terrible for business. “Five people are still comatose. And there’s been no discernable impact on the target.”

“Who was she?” At Yusuf’s blank look, Eames elaborates. “Who was the target to the billionaire?”

“A niece. Or daughter?” Yusuf shrugs. “Some sort of female relation, I believe.”

The chair creaks in the quiet.

“I’ll take ten doses,” Eames says, pulling another roll of bills from some secret pocket in his jacket. “Don’t sell your whole stock. I’ll need more when I return next month.”

Yusuf counts the money and opens the safe underneath his workspace. “You know I don’t make guarantees about future inventory.”

“Not even for old friends?” Eames’ smile is as rakish as it ever was, but the gleam doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Oh, are we friends again?”

“We’re survivors.” Eames shrugs as he undoes the chair restraints. “Shouldn’t all survivors in this hideous world be friends?”

As Eames leads the sedated zombie towards the door, an unfamiliar emotion washes over Yusuf. He's traded in the delusions of customers for so many years it takes him a minute to identify the feeling.

"You realize this is rather perverse, don't you?" Yusuf says with— _pity_ , that's the word—for the creature that used to be Arthur. "Keeping him captive like this."

Eames pauses in the doorway. "He’s not a captive. He’s under my protection."

Yusuf has only the vaguest memories of Arthur from years ago: punctilious, overdressed, private. All that remains is the dress: the zombie may be muzzled and bound, but not a drop of blood is visible on his dark waistcoat or trousers. Even his hair is tidy; neatly cut and slicked back. Eames’ doing.

Yusuf had been surprised the first time Eames turned up on his doorstep, zombie in tow. How he’s managed to avoid death and infection is an ongoing mystery, but Yusuf’s never been much for curiosity.

Eames’ luck will run out one way or another; Yusuf simply hopes he’s not caught in the storm when that day comes.


	3. What have you done?

The shrill cry of birds jerks Cobb out of his standing doze. At the top of the settlement gate is a nest filled with several chicks calling out for food—in vain, unfortunately. He hasn’t seen the parents all shift. Hopefully because it’s been a dark night, the landscape obscured with a thick fog uncharacteristic for southern California.

He straightens and knuckles his eyes. Light's beginning to break over the horizon, which means the end of his watch is approaching. The graveyard shift is always grueling, but at least it means he gets back home in time to see his kids off to school in the morning.

A figure emerges from the mist: a duster-clad man walking on the highway, armed with a rifle. He doesn’t look like anyone from the settlement, nor like a scientist from Canyon Lake. A survivor from another town in search of refuge, maybe? He hasn’t got that characteristic zombie shuffle, but he could still be in the early stages of infection, or an asymptomatic carrier.

Cobb rests one hand on the lever of the gate and the other on his sidearm. Hopefully this stranger’s willing to go into quarantine easy.

The shape of a second figure, several paces behind the first, appears in the gloom. It's muzzled at the mouth, handcuffed at the wrists, and tethered by a chain. A shudder runs down Cobb's spine; it’s been years, but he recognizes those silhouettes.

"Eames," Cobb calls out once they’re within earshot. “What have you done?”

“Whatever I’ve had to,” Eames replies. His face is like granite, settled under heavy scarring and a thick beard. Miles away from the sly, smirking con man of Cobb’s memory. “Same as you, I imagine.”

Cobb triggers the entry switch and steps through the gate. It closes behind him, sealing the settlement off. 

He approaches Eames, one hand ready by his sidearm. The guard on duty for the day shift will be arriving soon, can sound the alarm if this all goes to shit. “Arthur was infected at the beginning of the outbreak.”

Arthur’s face is as boyish as it was half a decade ago. If it weren’t for the pallor of his skin, the desaturated gray of his eyes, the way he moves—one might almost think he was still human.

“He was. That’s why I’m searching for a cure,” Eames replies. Cobb waits for a cruel punchline, a cavalier comment about Arthur’s usefulness in death as in life, but it doesn’t come. Eames doesn’t seem to be joking.

_What’s going on with you and Eames_ , Cobb had once asked Arthur. He’d never gotten much of an answer. Just fucking, Cobb had assumed, given their less than collegial history on jobs. But maybe not.

“Even if someone develops a cure,” Cobb starts.

“You ever think all of this could be one long, terrible dream?” Eames interrupts, voice abruptly light and nearly conversational. “That one day the timer on the PASIV is going to run down and we’ll return to reality?”

“I’ve been wondering that ever since my wife jumped out a window and framed me for murder.” The fingers of Cobb’s left hand reflexively close around the totem in his pocket. It’s gotten dented over the years, barely spins right anymore. “Been a hell of a long nightmare.”

“Sometimes I ask myself what someone could possibly want to extract from me. What could be worth designing all this?” Eames gestures at the wall, covered in barbed wire. At the deep pits encircling the settlement like a medieval moat, filled not with water but the charred remains of zombies. “Or perhaps this is a new form of psychological torture. Retribution for some slight or another.”

“Can you forge here?” Cobb asks, even as a part of him doesn’t want to hear the answer. Doesn’t know if he’d be willing to believe it. “You have the easiest method of distinguishing dreams from reality.”

All the animation disappears from Eames’ face, his voice. "There are fewer infected here. Much fewer than would be statistically likely given the surrounding environment."

"The local population has shown an unusual resistance to the infection," Cobb says, wary about the sudden change in subject. "Might be a genetic mutation. The research is still too preliminary to be conclusive." 

"So people here have survived attacks and bites." Eames gives slack to the chain, and Arthur drifts away to investigate a dead bird beside the gate. "And haven't turned?"

"A few. Odds are better if they amputate the affected limb within ten minutes of infection." Cobb watches the zombie that looks so much like the Arthur he remembers sniff a bird carcass—and turn away in disinterest. "It’s not really a treatment, though. Not like you can amputate a neck or a torso."

There’s a plaintive cry as a baby bird falls from the nest to the ground. Arthur lunges forward, muzzled mouth diving down towards it. The chick shrieks in terror, batting useless wings.

Cobb catches movement out of the corner of his eyes: Eames pulling some kind of remote from his pocket. The muzzle bars retract and the creature Cobb once knew as Arthur tears a tiny animal apart with his teeth. 

Eames resumes speaking, unperturbed. “Are people here working on a cure?”

Cobb drags his gaze back to Eames. "No. We don't have the equipment or expertise. But scientists have come by and taken samples for a lab. It’s funded by an old acquaintance of ours. Saito."

“Ah, Saito. Still meddling,” Eames replies. “Do you have coordinates for the lab?”

Cobb hesitates. Ariadne’s a great architect and the location is remote, but Arthur is clearly dangerous, and Eames—unstable. “The scientists drove in on highway ten. Said something about Canyon Lake in Arizona. Dangerous for a solo traveler, or even a secured caravan. A lot of infected on the way."

Eames lifts one shoulder, the rifle he has hanging along his back rising with it. "I won't be alone."

Cobb's eyes cut to where Arthur is standing, unmoving and unblinking. There’s blood smeared across his face. "You know that's not him anymore, don't you?"

The corners of Eames’ mouth turn up, but it’s not a smile. "Once we reach the facility, it will be."

"This isn't some edge case, someone freshly bitten," Cobb says, nausea rising. "When he was first infected, he said you’d--"

“I believe we have everything we need.” Eames turns away and beckons at Arthur. “We’ve a long walk ahead of us, apparently.”

Arthur follows obediently as Eames turns towards the highway. The sun is rising over the horizon but it hasn’t burned away the fog yet.

Cobb brings his gun up and takes aim at the back of Arthur’s head. They’ll have to cremate the body afterwards to be safe, but at least the parody of life will be over. It’s the only mercy he can offer Arthur now.

Before he can pull the trigger, Cobb hears the release of a chain. 

An inhuman force slams him back against the wall, knocking his breath away. Cold hands choke him as his gun clatters to the ground. The rasp of a muzzle drags down his jaw, a bare inch separating him from snapping teeth.

Cobb stares into the terrifyingly blank depths of the zombie’s eyes. He feels woozy, wonders if there’ll be enough of his mangled body left for anyone to find. If they’ll tell his children. “Arthur, don’t,” he gasps. If Arthur can understand words or recognize faces, he gives no sign of it.

"That’s enough, darling." Eames says, voice distant as Cobb’s vision fades, dizzy with oxygen deprivation. 

The hands around Cobb’s throat release. He takes huge, heaving breaths as Eames calls Arthur back to his side. Cobb thinks he might vomit.

“He fights better when he’s hungry,” Eames says, as if that’s some kind of explanation. “And apparently we’ve quite a few fights ahead of us.”

“Eames, he wouldn’t want this,” Cobb rasps as he forces his aching body into a sitting position. “You know he wouldn’t.”

“You presume a great deal for a man who hasn’t spoken to him in years,” Eames replies, chaining Arthur to him again. “I know he considered you a friend once. In light of that, I won’t kill you for what you attempted to do.”

Cobb rubs his bruised neck as they disappear once more into the fog. 

There’s nothing he can do for Arthur now, but Ariadne he can still reach.


	4. No matter how poorly you age, I promise I won’t leave

The days are unforgivingly hot, the nights unexpectedly chilly. After two days of walking, Eames gives up on fighting the desert and hotwires an abandoned car. 

It’s a cramped sedan, which isn’t ideal given how restive Arthur gets in confined spaces. But they’ve kilometers to go on the barren highway, and Eames might collapse of heatstroke before they reach another vehicle or a building to shelter in.

The driver side door has been ripped off and there’s blood crusted to the seats that’s at least a year old, if the way Arthur sniffs and turns his chin up is any indication. An empty Slurpee cup rolls around the passenger side footwell and ghastly rock music plays when Eames turns the car on. But there’s half a tank of gas left and if they’re lucky, that’ll be enough to get them to Scottsdale.

They are not lucky. It takes three more hotwired cars (and one truck cab that proved difficult to cajole Arthur into) before they reach the greater metropolitan area of Phoenix. 

Like most things in this godforsaken area of the United States, the city is made up of uninspired rectangular buildings planted in unattractive plots at uncomfortable distances apart. It’s been abandoned for some time; the viral outbreak had been intense, and most residents either fled or turned. Given the harsh climate, there weren’t many food sources once the human population turned, so the infected left the area in search of prey. Apparently never to return.

Nature has begun to reclaim the empty buildings, but the effort seems half-hearted at best. Spiny cacti grow into the sides of buildings, bored lizards sun themselves in the middle of roads. Everything seems washed out, dilapidated, structurally suspect.

As they drive through the wealthiest (well, formerly wealthiest) areas of Phoenix, empty pools and dried-up fountains are more common than rattlesnakes. Eames remembers the first time he felt the arid air on his tongue, the sandblasted breeze across his cheek. The surreal quality of watching enormous sprays of water leap into the air, evaporating immediately, fed by a seemingly endless source of money and waste. 

How long ago was that? Over a decade now. A shitty little job, one he hadn’t wanted to take, but finances were tight on the way to dire. The Russian mob had no sense of humor about unpaid debts and no patience for uncertain time horizons. The client had been insufferable, stingy, and a shite shag even in dreams.

“Do you suppose that horrid resort we stayed in for the Payne job is still around?” Eames wonders aloud. Arthur, undoubtably tired by their long day, does not reply. “Can’t believe we’ve come back to this shithole.”

The sun’s beginning to sink into the horizon, casting long shadows across the no longer manicured lawn of the resort when they pull up. The fountain out front is long dry. All the furniture in the lobby is upended, the site of a forgotten battle for survival.

Eames pauses to search behind the reception desk for snacks or bottled water while Arthur prowls the room, hunting rodents that have taken up residence. Rationing has been strict the past few days and there hasn’t been much on the highway for either of them to supplement their diets with.

Eames manages to dig out three bottles of water and a bag of crisps from underneath the concierge desk. They all taste like stale plastic, but he gulps them down regardless. Across the room, Arthur manages to get his hands around a rat.

The sprawling resort covers a hill, dotted with private villas and what used to be opulent pools, spas, and other amenities. Most of the villas seem long abandoned, having served neither hotel patrons nor terrified plague-survivors in years. 

Eames stops in front of the largest luxury villa he can find—the one Payne himself stayed in, if he remembers correctly. It’s an easy matter to force the defunct keypad on the door. 

The interior is clean, if dusty. A quick investigation of the plumbing reveals a working toilet, a small burst of water left in the faucet Eames uses to wipe himself down, and a packed minibar. Jackpot.

Arthur stands by the window, staring out into the twilight. There’s a faint rustling in the brush and Eames sighs. He’s not thrilled about the idea of Arthur hunting in the approaching darkness, but it’s been nearly a week since either of them had a substantial meal.

Arthur’s out the door almost before Eames releases the chain and muzzle, sprinting into the darkness. Eames watches him disappear before turning back inside, inexpressibly weary.

Eames can’t quite determine if the resort updated the décor in between Payne’s stay and the outbreak. Everything seems familiar, but that could be due to southwestern design clichés. The comfortable suite is certainly a far cry from the room Payne had put Eames and Arthur in, which had been little more than a broom closet.

Unsavory bit of business. While there were certainly worse jobs involving topside bullets and Eames’ internal organs, forging several porn stars in succession and sucking the cock of a man who managed to retain both an unpleasant odor and taste in dreams was at the bottom of Eames’ list of preferred money-making methods. Needs must and all that.

It did provide useful training for the sorts of jobs he takes on now, though there’s less actual sex. In some ways, he almost prefers the overt and transactional nature of a sexual exchange. 

There’s something uniquely unpleasant about forging a dead child for a client to read to in a dream, of course, but it’s the moments after a dream is done that Eames loathes. Clients begging for a few more hours is nothing new, and certainly not specific to grieving parents—but the escalating desperation, the willingness to barter literally anything to go under again—it all takes on a rather grotesque aspect that can be quite trying.

Eames has grown stricter about the parameters of each job. Only one session per client, payment upfront, no extensions and no additions afterwards. It’s not as if he doesn’t understand the appeal of escape. He thinks about it, too, sometimes. 

He knows exactly where he wants to go once Arthur is cured: four short months before the outbreak, a week spent in Arthur’s safehouse in New Mexico.

It was the first time Eames had witnessed Arthur’s home or his habits therein. Arthur wore suits even when he wasn’t working, enjoyed dry hot weather, and was an atrocious cook. He didn’t consume dairy because it gave him gas. He owned more shoes than any one man should ever possess and only wore two pairs of them consistently.

Their activities together were mostly mundane: grocery shopping in a small town with nothing whatsoever to recommend it, excellent daily sex, arguing over what to watch on the mammoth television in the living room.

Once Arthur’s cured, he’ll scold Eames for even thinking about recreating a memory, as if he doesn’t know the danger. As if he doesn’t deal with clients eager to shun reality every job he takes.

Arthur will probably want to create a new dreamscape together. He’s always enjoyed architecture, would relish the opportunity to create a perfectly decorated and designed civilization in the middle of sand dunes. Eames can populate the world with interesting projections and conceal the seams of the dream, preserve the illusion with multiple techniques he’s developed over the past few years.

Perhaps Arthur will only want to dip into a dream, enjoy a single level before returning to reality. He was never terribly interested in recreational dreamshare. 

But Eames imagines, sometimes, what it’d be like to sink so many levels deep that time ceases to have any meaning. To return to a life before the virus, to argue with Arthur in a supermarket over the brand of pasta to buy, to sit down with him over a homecooked dinner and talk about nothing much at all.

It takes Arthur several hours to return, during which time Eames has cleaned himself up as best he can, changed into a terry bathrobe, and devoured most everything in the minibar. The alcohol, he saves.

Arthur is, as expected, covered in blood when he steps through the door. More alarming is the large gash running down the front of his chest. He is as irritatingly stoic about the injury as ever, making no noises of complaint as Eames hurries him into a chair for closer examination.

“I knew I shouldn’t have let you go on your own,” Eames mutters as he pulls off the tattered remains of a ruined waistcoat and shirt. Arthur must have eaten well because he’s docile and pliable, not even protesting the casual handling of his clothing. “You can’t be reckless like this. We’re nowhere near civilization and you know my medical abilities are next to nil.”

Arthur’s head droops back in the chair as he sinks into heavy slumber, leaving Eames to mutter to himself as he examines Arthur’s wounds. Once the animal blood has been rinsed away with tiny bottles of vodka from the minibar, it’s clear that the long, jagged cut across Arthur’s abdomen is shallow. Within Eames’ limited skill to bandage.

Arthur’s entirely unconscious by the time Eames finishes, limp in the chair. Eames sighs as he eyes the King size bed across the room. 

With some maneuvering, Eames hauls Arthur’s limbs around his neck and half-drags, half-carries him to the bed, hoping Arthur will wake up at some point during the process. He doesn’t—after all their years together, Arthur’s relaxed his wary, one eye open sleep habits. Is totally comfortable being helpless in Eames’ company.

Eames strips Arthur of his shoes, socks, and underwear. It’s tempting to leave Arthur on top of the covers, but the night is growing cold and Eames doesn’t want him to wake up shivering and naked.

After wrangling the sheets around Arthur’s body, Eames crawls in after, quietly thrilled by the experience of clean sheets and a mattress. It’s a welcome change after nights spent on the side of the highway or in the backseat of a car. 

Arthur smells like cheap vodka and flowery gin overlaid the perpetual layer of grit and grime they both live with nowadays. Eames presses up close to his side, cock rubbing suggestively against Arthur’s hip in the hopes of inspiring some interest. He’s too deeply asleep to be tempted, and Eames gives Arthur’s flaccid dick a forlorn grope before settling his head on Arthur’s chest.

Arthur was never much into cuddling prior to the outbreak. Eames hadn’t been either; the sex had been good, and vigorous, leaving them both too overheated to continue touching afterwards. Eames supposes they’ve both become a bit more sentimental, apt to cling to each other after long days of traveling through desolate landscapes. 

The sex has tapered off as well—most of the places they find themselves bedding down aren’t particularly conducive—but Eames doesn’t mind as much as he used to.

If Arthur were awake and privy to Eames’ thoughts, he’d say something like, “You’ve gotten soft in your old age,” or, “I can’t believe I’m traveling with such a sap.”

Eames would probably reply with less trite versions of, “We’re both aging and I find it infuriating that I’m the only one who seems to be showing it,” and, “You’d be lost without me, both literally and figuratively.”

Arthur would reply, “No matter how poorly you age, I promise I won’t leave,” and, “I love you, Eames. I should have told you before the outbreak, but I was too chickenshit.”

“That’s alright,” Eames murmurs as he presses a kiss to Arthur’s jaw. The skin is smooth and cool in the chilly evening air. “We both ended up where we need to be, haven’t we? After you’re cured, we’ll retire to a remote location where nothing shall ever trouble us again.”


End file.
